


Exertion

by Fooeyburr



Series: Debt [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abuse, Dehumanization, Humiliation, M/M, Mental Anguish, Narcotics, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fooeyburr/pseuds/Fooeyburr
Summary: Stan learns the depths of Rico's obsession.





	Exertion

**Author's Note:**

> And here's my second installment! Between [Tongue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11811558) and this one, there are three parts written by Incognitowls:
> 
> [Filth](http://incognitowls.tumblr.com/post/148981455886/filth)   
>  [Stray](http://incognitowls.tumblr.com/post/149368318006/stray)   
>  [Demonstration](http://incognitowls.tumblr.com/post/149840657866/demonstration)
> 
> The third fic by yours truly will follow soon!

 

* * *

 

 

You’ll get used to anything… with time.

The streets had taught Stan plenty of survival as well as endurance. The key is to avoid conflicts, but face them head-on when an unavoidable one occurs. Only make eye contact when you’re in an equal position with the other party. An empty stomach is easy to deal with as long as you have a plan of action and your eyes on the prize. In the end, it was all about survival.

He’d lost track of how long he’d been kept a slave to the brothel and Rico’s violent urges, but that time had been enough for him to have developed something of a routine to it. He’d fight back until held down completely, and once it’s reached the point where he has no more room for struggle, he’d shut his eyes and drift off, away from the pain and the strikes and the heavy breathing on his neck. He’d gotten better at it over time, and even though he knew his unresponsiveness only made the hits even more ruthless – often enough to leave nasty marks and bruises that caused problems at the brothel – he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d found a place where he simply didn’t care.

Whenever there was a chance for it, though, he kept himself alert and observant of his surroundings. All of his escape attempts so far had failed, but every once in a while he could find an opening, a short gap in the watch he was constantly under. It gave him hope, and a reason to silently wait for his next chance.

Until then, he would fight back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he was told to suit up in the middle of the night, he didn’t think much of it at first – it was probably just another customer with more elaborate requests. Those freaks tended to pay well, so he didn’t mind. He needed the money. He needed to _get out_.

All for survival.

Then the goons came in, and the sight of them approaching made his stomach turn. He fought down the urge to run away from what he knew would soon follow. These days, he could suppress his fearful gut reaction fairly easily before taking action.

His restrainment went down the usual way: trashing and roaring, nails and teeth in spite of the knowledge that it was no use at this point, as Rico’s henchmen had gotten increasingly better at predicting his _routine_ as well. This time, however, one of them walked out of the room with a swollen lip, which Stan could take a bit of pride in. The cost for his small victory was the aching pain in his wrists, now tied to the legs of the dining table with knots that were definitely bound tighter than necessary.

It was still worth it, and for a good five minutes he could cling onto the tiny hope that he might be able to get an upper hand this time, and things would not go the way they always went.

The twist in his stomach as Rico walked in the room and stopped in the doorway to inspect him with keen eyes made his confidence waver a little; and when the man approached him instead of heading for the vacant chair on the opposite side of the table, the small hope changed into bubbling terror as he suddenly realized this was clearly a setting for something other than the usual.

And if it wasn’t the usual, it would probably be worse.

“Bumbling idiots”, Rico muttered as he circled around Stan’s chair, stopping behind his back. Stan flinched and squirmed instinctively when the large hands reached to straighten the collar of his jacket and smoothen the front of his shirt. It was almost a fatherly gesture, and it filled Stan with revulsion. “I told them to watch out for the suit. It’s custom-made, too. If I find any tears in the fabric, they’re going to spend their next year’s salary on custom-made dentures for themselves… If they’re lucky enough to have something left to put them in. Hah.”

The hands rested on his shoulders for a while before running up his neck and through his hair, all fatherliness gone from his touches. Stan didn’t know which was worse. Either way, he would’ve preferred to get hit. The setting and Rico’s odd behavior was making him extremely uneasy.

Rico’s attention was soon drawn to his fingertips whitened by the ropes squeezing his wrists. “And what the hell is that?” he huffed, sounding almost angry. “Can’t get one rat with a brain to work for me these days, can I? How difficult can it be to tie a whore down without disabling it? Unbelievable!” He reached for the ties, but was stopped by Stan’s angry hiss.

“Hands off”, he growled. “I don’t need your help.”

The man let out an ugly chuckle while running a finger across the back of Stan’s weakly clenched fist. “Really? It looks like it hurts.”

“Don’t you _fucking_ touch me!”

Although he’d expected the sharp slap on his numb fingers that followed, he hadn’t thought it would hurt enough to make him wince.

“You never learn, do you?” To Stan’s disappointment, his backtalk had done nothing to lessen the delight in Rico’s sneering voice. He seemed to be in an excellent mood. “You know I’ll touch you as much as and however I want. But all right, have it your way. In fact, a handless whore would be a nice little curiosity to have in my collection.”

Suddenly Stan felt a hint of regret over his stubbornness. He didn’t know how long he was going to be tied up like this, and his hands were already cold and prickling with the last bit of sense they had left. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask for Rico’s help now.

Finally the man retreated and took a seat on the other side of the table. “Well then, let’s get started.”

Against his decision to avoid eye contact with his capturer, Stan couldn’t help but glare at him murderously while another faceless goon walked in and began to set the table: two bowls of thick dark soup, one glass of some kind of aperitif – for Rico, no doubt – and a candle placed in the middle.

A candlelight dinner. _You have got to be fucking kidding me._

And what’s more, there was only one set of tableware, and it was set on Rico’s side.

“How the fuck am I supposed to eat?”

Rico leant back in his chair and laughed, giving a glance at his servant while gesturing him to leave. “How, he asks! Hah! The same way a bitch like you does everything, of course. With your mouth.”

“Jesus Ch…” Stan was bristling. For a moment he considered his chances of success in flipping the table on the scumbag’s face, but he knew he no longer had it in him. The scarce food and the very limited chances to move or exercise had eaten away most of his physical strength, and even his endless resources of rage couldn’t make up for his eroded muscles.

Not to even mention that at the moment, he was starving. Reluctantly he cast his eyes on the steaming soup in front of him. He gulped. Normally he wouldn’t hesitate a second – this was survival too, and he’d done much worse – but he had a bad feeling about how the situation was unfolding. He had no idea what was going on, and yet he was sure Rico wouldn’t be satisfied with this level of humiliation.

But it didn’t take him long to give in to the hunger fogging his head. _Just pretend the bastard isn’t there._

With said bastard staring him so intently he could feel it in his spine and making lewd comments that made his stomach heave with disgust, ignoring him was anything but easy.

“Look at you go, slurping it all up. By now you know to take everything you’re offered down to the last drop. It’s a sign of respect. You’ve really been a piece of work, but it’s slowly paying off…  What a nice, obedient little slut you’ve learned to be. I’m almost proud of you, Stanley.”

Stan almost choked on his soup. There it was again, that sickeningly parental tone that somehow reminded him of his father despite him having never told him anything of sorts. And… did he actually call him by his name? What the hell? _Why_?

His thoughts jumped almost compulsively back to knocking the table over, and for a brief moment the image of Rico’s ludicrous shirt catching on fire from the candle was plastered on his mind. _He’d pay for this… One day he’d pay for all of this._

If he wasn’t so hungry, he would’ve at least spilled the rest of his soup all over his own allegedly custom-made suit.

But by now his bowl was almost empty, and he licked it clean without feeling any particular shame for it. It was the first actual meal he’d had in days, and he doubted his food portions had recently been reduced for the sole purpose of starving him for this dinner. It wasn’t the first time Rico had played games with him, but the amount of planning and effort put in this one was disturbing... And the night was still young.

Stan refused to think about it. At least he’d had the chance to feed himself, so that was something.

By the time he had completely emptied the bowl of soup, Rico was still lazily eating his. “You’re a mess”, came a mocking remark. “I hope you at least enjoyed the soup.”

Stan rolled his eyes; he was very aware of the stains all over his face as well as his inability to wipe them off even without being specifically reminded of it. “It tasted like shit.”

“Is that so?” Rico snorted. “I think it’s delicious. Then again, yours had an extra twist in it, so maybe the taste was a little different.”

Stan flinched violently. “What?” Of course. He should’ve seen this coming. _He should’ve been more careful_. “You son of a bitch! What the fuck did you put in my food?”

Rico sipped his aperitif seemingly unconcerned, but when he spoke, there was a threat in his voice. “You’d better mind that filthy mouth, kid. Cuss all you want like the unruly little worm you are, but I won’t listen to you insulting my mother. She was an honorable woman. I should beat you unconscious to make sure you learn your lesson, but…” he laughed, “…well, I think the medicine is going to take care of that for me.”

Sedatives. _Fucking sedatives_. It wasn’t nearly the first time he’d been drugged, but every other time it had been a direct shot, just a necessary means to hold him down. Not like this _sick fucking game_.

The blur quickly taking over in his head distorted Rico’s voice that, for some damn reason, still continued speaking to him. “Honestly, I was expecting you to protest or knock the bowl over at some point... The dosage was very generous just in case you refuse to eat, so you’ll be out for a while.” He laughed; it sounded like the noise was coming from underwater. “You’re going to love it when you come back, though.”

“Don’t… fuck with me! …Shit!” Stan’s words were already just vague slur. “What thh… hell… are you… _urrrghhh_!” His worn out muscles refused to obey him as he struggled against his binds, his movements languid as if he was stuck in a slowed down movie.

“F…hhh…”

His head drooped, hitting the bowl’s edge and sending it rolling on the table. The sound it made as it fell and shattered against the floorboards was the last thing Stan knew before darkness hit him like a train.

 

 

* * *

 

 

…

His legs were trembling. His head… The entire room was trembling. …What the hell was going on?

“Rise and shine, little slut.”

It took him a good while to gather the words together; perhaps his brain was so slow to react because all the blood in his body was packed entirely elsewhere.

… sweet… fucking… _Jesus_.

He opened his mouth to shout, but the noise that pushed itself through his throat was downright ridiculous. Like someone had stepped on a squeaky toy, only without the squeaky part. Stan couldn’t believe it was his voice. He tried to laugh, but it was as though his lungs were full of cotton. His upper body shook with convulsed laughter, but no air went in or out.

_…This is... fucked up._

_This is fucked up. Take it out._

_TAKE IT OUT._

Panic did every trick it had up its sleeve, but his body was occupied with other things – mainly with the maddening vibrations inside him and the aching hardness of his cock. It hurt. It was so hard it actually _hurt_. Maybe it was because the rest of his body was still asleep from the drugs. Maybe it was because he was tied up again, this time bound to the headboard of a bed, forced in an unnatural position where he could barely move.

Maybe it hurt because it felt so good. Maybe everything good was supposed to hurt.

….what the hell.

His gaze wandered around the room, unable to focus on anything. His head swam, swinging from one side to another. As if it would help. Every once in a while he caught a glimpse of Rico watching him with a wide smirk on his face. He tried to avoid looking at him, _get away go away don’t_ but he seemed to be _everywhere_.

“Enjoying yourself? You sure look like you are.”

Stan’s breathing was an uneven series of shallow huffs. _Shut the fuck up. Stop talking. Please. Don’t. Let me go let me go let me go._

“I have some business to take care of, but I’ll join you later.”

NO. _NO NO NO NO NO_ –

“F…hh… _FU-CK_!” There was _no way_ that was his own voice.

Rico laughed. “I said _later_ , you impatient piece of shit.” He leaned closer, Stan tried to pull away but there was no escape _NO fuck you I will kill you_. _LET ME GO._

“You’ve done a decent job at the house, but it’s about time you learned who you really belong to. You will wait here for me like a good dog and when I come back, you’ll be _begging_ for my attention.”

Stan wanted, he really wanted to tell him exactly where to shove his attention, but… oh god. He really, _really wanted_ –

“Well then, I’ll be back in a few hours. Have fun.”

“Ghh… Shi.. t… _Urgghh_!”

It was a broken, pathetic sound that made him want to curl up in shame and die.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He could handle this. He just needed to...

He needed to… Just…

…get one hand free, or even a leg, _anything_ , come on, just… move –

…there was no, he couldn’t… God, it felt so good but he _had_ to –

Please. Please, please, please.

_He couldn’t move_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I’ll kill him for this. I’ll fucking kill him I’ll tear him apart I’ll break his fucking face_

_Please_

_Make it stop_

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the last effects of the sedatives finally faded away, it got even worse.

It was easier when his body was still half asleep. Now every single nerve in his body was on edge, and the lack of friction was _unbearable_. He was losing his mind. He was thirsty and nauseous and all he wanted was to pass out – sometimes his vision would go black from the frustration and need and exhaustion, but there was no blessing of unconsciousness – his overstimulated body kept him in its hellish grip. The constant waves of sweet, tormenting pinpricks racking his flesh tore his concentration apart. There was no escape.

Nothing, _nothing_ helped.

He had no plan of action. No control over the situation or himself.

He wanted to cry, but the strain prevented tears from coming.

So he sobbed and wailed through his dry throat like a child.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t believe in god, but he found himself praying to one either way.

Dear god, make it stop.

Make it stop.

He could do nothing to stop it.

Someone… make it stop.

Please.

_Please..._

What was he being punished for?

What had he done to deserve this?

…Stanford?

He’d said he was sorry. He’d been sorry for so long. _It was an accident_. He didn’t mean to. _I didn’t mean to_.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

_Help me._

This is too much.

_I don’t deserve this._

It felt _so good_.

He wanted it to stop.

He wanted to _die_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It had been way too long _WHEN IS HE COMING BACK_

_I WILL KILL HIM WHEN HE DOES_

_please please please please please please please please please_

* * *

 

 

…

_I’m sorry._

_Please stop this._

_I **hate** you._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was a strange feeling – being completely numb and on edge at the same time. It was strange, because it reminded Stan of laughing until he was out of breath. He didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that. Perhaps some time around his childhood.

Glass Shard Beach.

He was no longer sure if that had even been him on that beach. Perhaps he was someone else, with another person’s memories. Maybe he had no past to begin with.

“H – -me – … n?”

Who was this other boy, though? Stanford Pines. Sixer. His twin brother. Family. Or so he thought. They looked kind of similar. _Or so he thought_.

But Ford wouldn’t help him. He deserved this. He deserved all of this. No. No. Ford… Ford would…

No. He’d ruined… He’d ruined everything. He deserved this.

“Hey, pay attention when I talk to you. A little out of it, no?”

…Rico was back.

Somewhere beneath the thick fog pressing him down, Stan felt relief. He wondered why. Oh, right… _Release_. For a moment, he’d forgotten this could actually end.

_It would finally end._

He opened his eyes for the first time in what must’ve been hours. Seeing the room around him made him feel feverish all over again. Rico was standing over him at the bedside, lazily unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’ve made a mess of my sheets”, he commented with a note of amusement. “How disgusting.”

Stan felt sticky and cold. He’d stopped sweating at some point. Dehydration.

Somehow he still felt his mouth water as he watched Rico’s leisurely slow movements. _Hurry up. Hurry the fuck up. Put an end to this already._

_Just hurry up, you son of a bitch._

He turned his eyes away from the undressing man. He’d never loathed anyone so much.

But it didn’t stop his pulse from racing in anticipation when he felt the bed dip under Rico’s weight.

“Now…” his voice was quiet, almost a gentle whisper. “Who do you belong to, slut?”

Stan didn’t answer, but his exhales hitched and turned into small, animalistic whines against his will. It was mortifying.

“You want me to fuck you, yes?” Rico continued muttering, leaning closer to his ear. “You want it hard and fast. You want me to fill you, that’s all you can think about, right? You want _me_ to fuck you. You want _me_.”

Stan wanted to retort. He wanted to say no – but then Rico’s hands were on him, and all he could do was _moan_.

It didn’t stop even when the hands were drawn away. The wordlessly begging noise kept pushing from his lungs as if it had a will of its own. Please, please, _please_.

“Good boy.”

By the time Rico withdrew the thing inside him and roughly lifted his trembling hips, his breathing had turned into loud, continuous moaning.

Stanley Pines was not weak. He’d never been weak. He despised being weak.

But at the moment Rico caressed his entrance gently before ramming unapologetically into him, he _loved_ being weak.

He screamed.

It only took a few thrusts for him to reach his limit. He came with his breath hitched in his throat, nails digging into the sheets, legs twitching and scrambling about in a panicky manner, his hips grinding desperately against Rico’s cock. The fitful, high-pitched whimper that followed his every muscle contracting and tensing was nothing sort of painful. Almost like a dying breath. Maybe it was just that. Maybe he died. Maybe it was all over.

But it didn’t stop.

Rico wasn’t done yet; no, he’d barely gotten started. His movements were getting more violent, thrusting deeper into Stan’s oversensitive flesh, and now it hurt. _It hurt. God, it really hurt._

Stan was crying. He couldn’t breathe, his voice was gone, but large tears were dripping from the corners of his eyes and he had no way to stop it. He tried to turn away, but Rico’s fingers gripped his chin and forced it back up.

“Look at me, whore... _Look at me!_ ”

He’d done this before. Forced him to look him in the eyes while he fucked him, with the barrel of his favorite gun pressed against his temple. There was no gun this time. But Stan had no energy to fight. He had no strength left in him.

So he gazed hazily in the eyes of his tormentor, silently gasping for breath, and he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

A hand brushed his hair like his mother used to do before he went to sleep. _Mom. Help me. Help me. Someone help me. I don’t deserve this and it really hurts. It hurts._

The hand moved to his face, wiping the tears, an eager tongue licking them off his face, heavy breaths falling on his neck along with hungry kisses and bruising bites. _It hurts..._

_“...Mine.”_

And then – at last – he felt warmth spread inside him as Rico gripped his hair and came with a loud, satisfied groan.

It’s over.

_It’s over._

The numb relief washing over Stan over the mere thought was almost enough to push him over the edge for the second time.

Almost.

But there was nothing left in his body to respond to that sensation.

Nothing.

Unconsciousness finally took him, but not before he could feel Rico wrapping his arms around his limp body, softly cradling it. Like his mother used to hold him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He spent the next few days in a haze. Rico kept him in his house, sometimes taking care of him himself, sometimes leaving him to one of his henchmen.

He used him again on the night of the third day. This time, Stan came almost instantly. He felt no pleasure nor satisfaction upon climaxing. By now, it was only his body’s reflexive reaction to avoid the torment it had gone through once.

Stan had a feeling he might not be going back to the brothel at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

His hunch was confirmed two nights later.

He’d recovered enough to put up his usual fight, both verbally and physically. It was feeble and it made no difference, but it was an effort. At least he could still make an effort.

And there he was again, forcefully pressed against Rico’s chest after yet another violation.

Just as he’d gotten somewhat used to constant abuse, the treatment he got had suddenly gotten softer, almost affectionate – it was as though he was no longer a replaceable object to simply make money with, but… a possession. It was worse. He would’ve preferred being kicked around.

“Stanley.”

Stan tensed. This was the third time Rico had called him by his name.

“Stop calling me that, you disgusting slimebag.”

“What? So you prefer to be called a slut instead?”

His blood ran cold as he realized there was some truth in the sneer, and it filled him with disgust towards both the other man and himself.

He growled under his breath. “What do you want this time?”

Rico hummed against the back of his neck. “We should talk about your debt.”

Stan almost startled at the mention of the original reason of his captivity. Now that he thought of it… He’d been more diligent with counting his earnings at first, but with a quick estimation, he’d made quite a lot of business in the past few weeks. Could it really be enough to –

“You’re barely making any money at the house.”

… _what?_

“D… don’t try to fuck with me, I know exactly how –“

“Oh, that’s right”, Rico interrupted him with a smile. “I never told you the interest rate, did I?”

Words of protest were stuck in Stan’s throat.

“It’s quite high. Add to that the costs of keeping you, the injuries you’ve caused to my men, the amount of furniture you’ve broken trashing around like a rabid animal… Well, let’s just say your debt is now bigger than when you started working for me. At this rate, you’re completely useless at the brothel. So from now on, I’ll keep you here. All to myself.”

For a moment, Stan was frozen still. Then a quiet word fell from his lips.

_“Motherfucker.”_

He was instantly held against the bed, strikes from a large hand landing directly on his face. “Don’t you -” He heard a nasty _crunch_ as Rico’s ring hit his cheekbone. “- _ever disrespect my mother!_ _Cállense la pinche boca! Este es lo que quieres? Eh? Perro mugriento!_ ”

And then it stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The hands trapped his naked, beaten body, now fallen limp like a ragdoll, and pressed him closer until he felt Rico’s hot breath on his neck.

With the taste of blood on his lips, Stan stared blankly ahead, listening to the whispers he could no longer escape.

“Don’t worry... You’ll learn to behave. I’ll teach you. I’ll take good care of you.”

“You’re mine. All mine.”

“For the rest of your days.”

“Until you break.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Until I break you.”_


End file.
